


Our Great Glory, And Our Great Tragedy

by stxrks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23918776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stxrks/pseuds/stxrks
Summary: Olympus is in turmoil. The Baratheon have been slain, the Starks banished, and the depraved Joffrey sits the throne, ruling over the gods. While a rebellion bubbles in the near distance, little can be done with Joffrey’s most powerful enemies dead or trapped in other realms.Arya Stark, goddess of death, rules the realm of the Underworld, to which she has been banished. She rules alongside her cousin Jon, having not seen the rest of her family in years. She has no inkling of the gravity of the situation on Mount Olympus, until a single white stag of Olympus itself makes its way to her realm, inexplicably carrying a rider who identifies himself as Gendry Baratheon, a minor god of Spring.Arya can sense death in the air. She knows a battle is looming. And somehow, this mysterious minor god is the key to winning this battle, finding her family, and restoring justice within the realm of the gods ...
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen/Daenerys Targaryen, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Ygritte/Val/Satin Flowers, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man ..... this plot bunny came to my head as a Arya!Hades x Gendry!Persephone AU, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. Next thing I know an entire plot had formed in my head, and after several hours of plotting and planning, I started writing. Probably not a great intellectual re-imagining of Greek myth, but it's a fun one. 
> 
> Also, life hack? If you can't decide who to ship Jon with, just ship him with everyone. That's what I'm doing at any rate.

Jaime’s heart feels hollow as he leaves his sister’s chambers. Her commands had been crisp and absolute, leaving no room for any other interpretations. There was a time his heart would have soared to do as she bade, quickly and ruthlessly, and spend the rest of the night fucking her until she screamed. But that was before.

The young man she has ordered him to kill is an innocent. He doesn’t deserve this, nobody does.

_ The Starks were innocent. The Baratheons, less so, but still undeserving. Look at what your family subjected them to,  _ he argues with himself. _ Look at what you helped them do. You even stood back all those years ago when they killed your own brother. _

He’s not that man anymore, he hasn’t been for a while. He stares at the disappearing figure of the young man on the stag. He has a clear shot. One quick, easy shot. His death would be quick. Merciful, even.

He thinks about Brienne.

Jaime lowers his bow and the stag and its rider disappear over the hills.

“Is he dead?” Cersei asks impatiently when he returns to her chamber.

“Yes,” he lies, and wonders what Cersei will do to him or the young man when she finds out the truth. He wonders what she’ll do to Jaime himself.

She seems pleased for now. “Good,” she says.

Even when she kisses him, he can’t help but continue to think of Brienne.

**\---**

Arya doesn’t dream, but she thinks if she did, she would probably dream of her siblings. Sansa, with her skin of moonlight, Robb as cheerful and bright as the sun he presides over, Rickon as ferocious as all the wars he orchestrated victories in, and Bran with his unassuming manner but deadly wit.

It’s been many years since she was banished to the Underworld, years since she’s seen the sunlight, never mind her family. The ache of missing them has subsided over that time, now it’s more of a constant dull ache rather than sharp bursts of pain.

She sits on her throne as she has done every day for the past year, her beloved three headed wolf Nymeria curled up at her feet, and awaits for Jon. She hears him before she sees him, the telltale sound of oars brushing against lapping water as his boat comes up the River Styx that he rows so often.

He bows down in respect before approaching her.

“My queen.”

“Jon,” she chastises, because in all her time here, her once distant cousin that before she only knew in passing has now become her closest companion.

He smiles and corrects himself. “Arya.”

She embraces him and asks her usual question. “Any news?

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Arya. No sign of them yet.”

She nods, tight lipped. The news is as she expected. In all this time, there has been no news of her family, any connection the Underworld had with Olympus being completely severed. Why would anything change now, all these years later? But she has more pressing matters at hand right now. She can feel it around her, the approaching death. The Underworld is hungry, and it knows it’s soon to be fed.

She forces her voice to remain steady. “Where are the Furies? I must speak to them.”

Jon frowns. “About what?”

“There’s a war coming,” Arya tells him. “I can smell the approaching death.”

Jon doesn’t look fazed. Death is something the pair of them contend with daily. “I’ll fetch the Furies,” he tells her, and she doesn’t miss the slight blush that crosses his cheeks. It’s hardly a secret that all three Furies harbour romantic feelings for Jon, and that Jon, despite his stoic manner, returns their affections deeply. Indeed, the three furies seem to revel in teasing him about it.

She opens her mouth to tease him herself, when the great doors of the throne room are burst open, and an animal gallops into the room. It takes Arya a couple of seconds to place it as a stag. Not a stag of the mortal world, but one of pure white fur, with a size and strength that suggest heavenly origins. This is a stag from her old home of Olympus itself, a stag of the gods.

And on its back, slumped over in unconsciousness, a rider.

**\---**

“There’s a delightful irony,” Margaery says wryly to her brother, as she sips the wine, a wedding gift from the god of wine himself. “The goddess of love trapped in a loveless marriage, to a man who is responsible for the loss of her actual true love.

Loras smiles pityingly. He knows all too well the pain of losing a partner. “I’m sure Grandmother would find it most amusing.”

“Probably,” Margaery agrees. From her chambers, she has a perfect view of the moon, half full and sallow. “It’s always been so ugly,” she says. “Ever since we lost her.”

Ever since I lost her is left unsaid.

“The world’s gone ugly,” counters a quiet voice from the doorway. “The moon and the sun both. Wars are being endlessly fought without a clear victory in sight, and there is no trace of magic, and scarce joy left in the world. Nothing is being built and we’ve lost all sense of communication with the world. Even the Underworld is closed off from us.”

Margaery smiles ruefully at her brother’s pained, if pretentious words. “Willas,” she beckons him. “Sit with us.”

He does, limping on his way over. “Garlan sends his love. He had to stay with Leonette tonight. She’ll be having the child any day now.”

Margaery sighs. “At least there’s some love left in the world,” she says. “Maybe I’m doing something right.”

**\---**

****Gendry feels ice cold water splashed across his face and wakes up in a start, spluttering. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there. All he knows is the cold sense of dread that coils within him, that he doesn’t think has anything to do with the water thrown in his face. He forces himself to sit up so he can see those in his company, a man and a woman. They look similar, like brother and sister. Both pale and dark-haired, and both with a strong aura of death.

“Should I kill him?” the man asks grimly, in a tone that makes Gendry recoil. He’s a handsome looking man if truth be told, but there’s something in his eye that Gendry can’t quite place as fire, ice or both.

“Not yet,” comes the answer from the woman. She’s thin and short, with a crown of a strange material resting upon her dark hair. He’s also keenly aware of the sword she has angled at his throat, and the gigantic three headed wolf softly growling by her side.

“Who are you?” she demands of him. “Why are you in my realm?” He suddenly realizes the crown upon her head is made of human bone, and his sense of dread only heightens.

“My name is Gendry,” he answers immediately, feeling the truth is the most sensible option. He hopes his voice doesn’t reflect how scared he is. “I was an apprentice to Lord Stannis,” he says. “But now, I’m loyal to the King.”  _ Before he had his uncle sent to kill me _ , is thought but left unsaid.

She glares at him and lowers her sword briefly. “You serve King Robert?”

He looks at her blankly. The question seems genuine. “Robert? Robert and his brothers have been dead for some time, “he replies uncertainly. “Robert’s son Joffrey sits on the throne of Olympus.”

She blinks in obvious surprise. “Did you know of this?” she demands of the man.

“Of course not,” the man replies. “But how can we be sure he’s telling the truth?”

“Why would I lie?” Gendry demands. “The Baratheon brothers were killed at the hands of Joffrey and his family, and now they’re after me. I only just escaped Jaime Lannister with my life.”

The man scoffs. “If Jaime Lannister wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Besides, why would any Lannisters send him after you?” he demands.

“Jon,” the woman says strangely. “That stag brought him here, for whatever reason it had. It is a stag of the Baratheons. Heavenly creatures do everything for a reason.” At this, she rubs the wolf at her feet on its head. “If what he is saying to be true - “ she takes a deep breath. “What of the Starks?” she demands of him. “The goddess of the moon, the god of the sun? The god of magic and the god of victory? They wouldn’t sit back and let Joffrey murder the Baratheon lords.”

Gendry realizes with a jolt, that this woman, whoever she is, truly doesn’t know what’s been happening on Olympus for the past year. “The Starks are gone,” he says. “Lord Eddard and his wife were killed. Their four surviving children were banished to live out the lives of mortals with no memory of their godly selves.”

She lowers her sword to her side completely. To his amazement, he realizes there are tears in her eyes. “Who - who are you? And where is this?” he asks, having slightly regained his confidence now her sword his pointed away from him.

“I’m Arya Stark, the goddess of death,” she replies simply. “And this is the Underworld.”

Gendry feels unconsciousness swallow him again.

**\---**

Robb rips the parking ticket off the front of his car window and tries not to scream with frustration. That’s eighty euro he doesn’t have. All for the sake of being three minutes late from escorting his younger brothers out of the school, after the school principal had blown up his phone with texts demanding his attention after another outburst from Rickon. He had figured he might as well collect Bran while he’s at it, save himself the journey later on. Technically speaking the school isn’t supposed to just let people go home whenever they feel like it, but they tend to turn a blind eye for Bran. Wheelchair perks and all that.

Bran is silent as Robb lifts him into the car, but Robb can almost sense his frustration. He knows how much Bran hates being so dependent on other people, but if the doctors are to be believed, he’ll be like this for life.

Neither Bran nor Rickon say anything for the entire car journey home, both just sit in sullen silence. Robb sighs, and forces himself to speak as they pull into the driveway.

“Rickon?” he says. Rickon simply glowers at him from the back seat.

“Rickon,” Robb repeats, this time firmer. “Listen to me. That was bang out of order. It’s the third time this month that school has called me about you acting up. What the hell were you thinking, punching the kid like that? It’ll be a miracle and a half if they don’t expel you.”

Rickon scowls at him and doesn’t reply, simply exits the car, slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t need to wait for Robb and his key to get into the house, the shitty lock on their shitty council door has been broken for the past month. It’s been a miracle there hasn’t been a break-in, and Robb is convinced there will be one by the time the council gets around to fixing it, whenever the hell that will be.

“I’ll help you in,” he says to Bran, and feels his heart break only slightly when Bran just stares at him.

Getting Bran into the house is a nightmare, because as luck would have it, the council couldn’t even see that they got a house without steps leading up to the door, but Robb just about manages. He’s tired now, and he still has a full evening and night shift to work if he wants to make sure they get food on the table. Bran wheels himself into the living room they’ve converted into a bedroom once an upstairs room stopped being an option and closes the door behind him. Sansa’s sitting on the beaten-up couch in the kitchen, eating a full fat chocolate yoghurt and watching some quiz show on their crappy telly. She’s very much starting to show now, five months into her pregnancy. She still won’t tell him who the father is, and just brushes him off every time he asks. Robb’s already struggling to deal with two teenagers in the house, he doesn’t know how in the hell they’re going to manage a baby on top of everything else.

“Hey,” she says warmly as he kisses her forehead. “I’d offer you a chocolate yoghurt but I ate the last one.”

“I’ll forgive you,” he says, “but only ‘cause you’re pregnant. How was he today?”

“Kicking,” she says, “and making me crave chocolate like some hormonal teenager.”

He grins. “I’m going to take a nap before tonight’s shift,” he says lightly. “I’ll be working late so are you okay to get the boys to bed?”

“Robb,” she says with a fond eye roll. “I’m pregnant, not cripp - “ she breaks off suddenly, realizing what she was about to say. “Look,” she continues forcefully. “We’ll be fine.”

He nods and heads up to his room that he shares with Rickon. Rickon’s in there with his headphones in, angry rap music blaring out.

“Rickon,” he asks wearily, “do you mind hanging downstairs with Sansa? I might squeeze a nap in before my work shift.”

Rickon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even nod, just storms out of the room without a word. Robb sighs, sets an alarm, and clamors into his shitty camper bed that’s well overdue a wash, and doesn’t help with the strange dreams he’s prone to.

He’s working in the chipper when Sansa bursts through the door “Robb, quick you’ve gotta see this, Bran’s walking, he walked all the way here,” pulling him through the door while his boss yells.

When he gets outside Bran is standing upright but scowling. “You’re such a dick,” he snaps, “I thought big brothers were meant to take care of younger brothers.” Robb wants to argue with that, wants to protest that he’s been trying his best, that he still feels guilty about the accident every day of his life.

“We got rid of the baby,” Sansa says brightly. “It was making too much noise and it was kind of ugly anyway, so Rickon killed it for me.”

Robb doesn’t know how to respond for that, and he feels dizzy anyway and thinks he’s going to fall and yells for help, but Sansa and Bran are already far off in the distance, out of earshot.

Someone catches him just before he stumbles.

“It’s you,” he says in amazement, because he knows her, she’s been a recurring figure in his dreams for as long as he can remember. A woman, just a little bit older than Bran, with dark hair and a small stature. Always off in the distance, in the corner of his eye but never talking. He wants to call out to her, find out her name at least, but she’s gone.

His alarm clock blares and wakes him up and he struggles to piece together his dream. Something about Rickon killing Sansa’s baby? Bran yelling at him? Something about a girl?

By the time he’s at the chipper, muttering apologies to his boss for being thirty seconds late, he’s forgotten about the dream in its entirety.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry’s questions are answered, Jaime must confront his failings, Jon is faded with a dilemma and Dany’s past catches up with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah i have no excuse for not updating in so long

When he comes to consciousness again, Arya escorts Gendry and the impassive man who has since introduced himself as Jon to a room much smaller than her throne room. The stag remains behind in the throne room. This new room is a gloomy affair, stone walls only lit up by flickering torches. There’s a long table that takes up the majority of the room. Arya seats herself at the head of the table, but Jon remains standing. Gendry wavers, not sure of what he’s expected to do. 

“Should I fetch them?” Jon asks Arya. He doesn’t clarify who he means. 

Arya considers for a moment then nods. “I don’t think the war I foresee is unrelated to this - this development.” 

Jon nods, bows slightly and departs. 

“Sit,” Arya commands. “And we shall talk.” Gendry’s glad for the direction. He’s never felt as lost in his life. 

“You’re a young god,” Arya remarks, studying him with her intense grey eyes. Not even a century.”

Gendry nods in affirmation. “Ninety six,” he confirms.

“I see,” says Arya. She snaps her fingers and a wine glass of a rich red liquid appears before her. “What are you the god of?”

“I’m only a minor god,” he answers. “I deal with matters of spring and nature.” 

She stares. “What business would the Baratheons and Lannisters have with such an irrelevant god.”

He chooses to ignore the blow. “I’m one of Robert Baratheon’s bastard offsprings,” he says. It’s not exactly a source of pride, being the son of a god infamous for inability to stay loyal to his wife. 

Arya nods. “One of many,” she muses aloud as she drinks her wine. 

“The only one left alive.” 

She looks startled. “What do you mean?” 

He bites his lip. “When Joffrey ascended to the throne, the Lannisters deployed a legion to kill any children of Lord Robert.”

Arya speaks again, but there’s something gentler in her tone. “So how did a minor god of Spring manage to survive the wrath of the Lannisters?” 

“My Uncle Stannis,” Gendry tells her. He sees no reason to lie. “He took me in when I was only a child, raised me as his own. He always kept me identity a secret, even from myself for years. I assume it’s why Jaime Lannister tried to kill me. I don’t know how they found out after all these decades.” It’s only after the word decades leaves his mouth that he realises what a short time span that is to a god like Arya. 

“He’s gone,” Gendry says. “Him, his wife, even little Shireen. All murdered.” 

“And my own family .... “ Arya mutters slowly, as if she’s voicing aloud her thoughts. “You say they were banished to the human realms? But why? Why not kill them and he done with it?”

Gendry shrugs. “I - I don’t know. Random acts of kindness aren’t exactly in Joffrey’s nature.” 

Arya presses on. “And what brought you here? And don’t answer the stag, for I saw that with my own eyes. I’m asking who sent you on that stag.”

“Davos,” he responds. 

Arya looks mildly impressed. “Davos Seaworth, god of the sea? 

Gendry nods then continues. “My Uncle Stannis had .... an unhappy marriage with his wife, Selyse. They had one child, years ago, and I doubt they ever bedded again since her conception. Him and Davos though .... “ He trails off, cheeks blushing

For the first time since he’s met her, Arya grins. “You’re the son of Robert Baratheon, and you can’t handle talking about sex?” She shakes her head, still grinning. 

“It was more than sex,” Gendry says. “The stag answered to Davos when he called on it to save me. It recognised the bond between Davos and Stannis, even now.” 

“I see,” Arya said. “Did Davos give your stag directions?”

“No,” Gendry says. “He just instructed it to run.”

“And it brought you here,” Arya says. “Heavenly stags are intelligent creatures. It brought you here for a reason.” She frowns. “But why?”

They sit in silence for the next couple of minutes, Arya lost in her thoughts, Gendry growing more uncomfortable as the seconds drag on. He’s almost glad for the return of Jon, since it means he doesn’t have to dwell with Arya in this awkward silence that lingers.

Jon is accompanied by three newcomers, two women and a man. They all share the same grin, and all seem to hang off Jon.

When the quadrant sits down, Arya snaps her fingers again, and five new classes of wine appear, four for Jon and his companions, and one for Gendry. 

The four of them drink from their glasses, but Gendry doesn’t touch his. 

One of the three newcomers, the redhead woman laughs. “Doesn’t accept food or drink from the Underworld. Smart boy.” She’s not conventionally beautiful, but there’s something about her wild red hair and crooked grin that draws attention to her. 

“Ygritte,” Jon warns. 

She pouts playfully. “Just making an observation.”

“So why have we been summoned, my Queen?” the blonde woman enquires. She’s beautiful in the traditional sense, with blonde hair that cascades down her back, piercing eyes and high cheekbones. 

“I assume it wasn’t to admire your new boy toy,” the male drawls. He’s as pretty as any woman, black hair that falls past his skin in curly ringlets. Gendry feels his cheeks redden, and hopes he doesn’t look as hot as he feels. 

“Val, Satin,” Jon says in that same tone of warning. 

“I was only asking a reasonable question,” Val points out. 

“Well, I was just being a brat,” Satin says, almost batting his long lashes at Jon as he speaks. It’s almost amusing to see a man as stoic as Jon blush. 

Arya frowns, and speaks as if she’s paid no heed to their banter. “There’s a war coming,” she says steadily. “Of course, you three are surely aware of such.” 

Jon’s three companions nod in sudden solemnity.

Arya continues. “And matters on Olympus are far worse than we could have ever imagined.” 

“I’m sorry,” Gendry can’t help but interrupt. “But how were you so unaware of the state of affairs in Olympus? Surely you have some connection, some communication - “

Arya cuts him off. “We’ve been cut off from Olympus in its entirety. There’s no way out of the Underworld, not since my banishment. No way in either, apart from the souls of deceased mortals. You’re the first living creature, never mind the first god that we’ve seen in a very long time.”

She quickly relays the story of Gendry’s arrival and all he told her to the other four. 

Gendry struggles to stay silent when she’s done. “I don’t understand,” he demands. “How are you here? For so many years, people thought you dead.”

He feels Jon’s glare on him, and shivers. “Watch your tone,” Jon warns quietly. His warning isn’t laced with any affections like the warnings he had just administrated to the trio that accompanied him.”

Arya waves Jon off. “He answered my questions,” she points out. “It’s only fair that I return the favour.”

She then speaks directly to Gendry. “The Lannisters are liars,” she says simply. “I was - I was banished from Olympus, years ago. Back when Lord Robert was in charge of Olympus. I was going about my day when I witnessed Joffrey - when I witnessed him doing something vile. I struck him. He demanded my head, but his mother and grandfather did not, not wanting to make an enemy of my family or their allies, at least not until the Baratheons has been dealt with at any rate. Unbeknownst to Joffrey, who thought me dead, it was settled that I would retain permanent residence here, in the Underworld, the realm of my origins.” Her frown deepens. “My parents were unhappy with these conditions, but they agreed to them, if only to keep the rest of their children safe. Of course I spent some of my time here before my banishment, but only sparingly. I was free to travel between this realm and Olympus, free to see my family - “

At this point she breaks off, and Gendry could swear there are tears pricking her eyes.

“ - but the Lannisters have created a falsehood of my death, since they seized power.” She frowns, and in that moment she looks like a frustrated child. “What would they have to gain from that? The entirety of Olympus knew I was banished, why lie about my death?”

Gendry half wants to reach out to her, to comfort this strange, formidable woman that he’s known for less than an hour. However, he isn’t sure if that’s the smartest course of action under Jon’s watchful eye. 

She turns to her companions. “I originally brought you here because of this oncoming war. But now, I have a lead with regards to my siblings’ whereabouts.” She bites her lip, then continues. “Whatever problems have arisen on Olympus, I an contend with them later. Right now, my priority is to journey to the mortal world and find what’s left of my family.”

“Arya,” Jon says gently. “You can’t leave this realm, the rules of your banishment won’t allow it. How would you even begin to go about breaking such a curse.”

Arya’s answer is instantaneous. It’s obvious she’s considered this. “The stag brought Gendry here. Surely it can bring us out of here too.”

“Us?” Gendry inquires weakly, hoping she’s referring to himself and Jon. No such luck.

Arya nods. “That stag brought you to me for a reason. Whatever my fate is in this war the future holds for me, you are now intertwined with it, Gendry Baratheon.”

Jon still looks pained. “Arya, you could be searching the mortal realm for a while. The underworld needs you, especially if your vision of war is true.”

“The Underworld needs a ruler,” Arya corrects him. “Someone who is just and clever, someone I can trust.”

She unsheathes her crown of bone and holds it out to Jon. “Cousin, I have known of you for a long time, but have only come to truly know you in the past few years. I can think of no better ruler. Accept my proposition, and rule over this realm, as King of the Underworld in my absence.”

The tension that hangs in the air amid the silence following Arya’s speech is palatable, and Gendry dares not breathe. Ygritte, Val and Satin are likewise still, as they watch the scene unfold before them. 

Jon hesitates momentarily, speaks. “It would be the greatest honour.”

Ygritte makes a noise that resembles a whoop, Satin’s grin widens and the flower of pride in Val’s eyes is unmistakable. It’s not incredibly dignified, but Gendry doesn’t think Arya minds too much. 

Arya smiles, and gently places the crown of bone on her cousin’s head. Immediately Gendry can sense a new surge of power emanating from Jon and he knows something very significant has happened. 

Arya’s smile lessens as she turns to him. “Follow me,” she orders and Gendry doesn’t think he could refuse her if his life depended on it.

He just about musters enough dignity not to stumble over his own feet as he follows the Queen of the Underworld to her throne room. 

—

“Brienne,” Jaime calls towards the warrior goddess, who is within far too close of range to him to successfully pretend to ignore him.

“Lord Jaime,” she says cooly. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to the training i am instructing.” Being a relatively minor god of war, Brienne is often stuck with such tasks, teaching the intricacies of sword fighting to younger and inexperienced gods. In heated moments in bed together, when the world around them ceased to exist, Jaime would whisper promises in her ear, that she could share his bed in his palace of finery, eat food fit for - well, the gods. She would have have to pick up a sword again for any reason other than the sheer pleasure of holding one. It wasn’t too long ago that he made these promises, but they feel as though the come from a lifetime ago. Now Brienne can scarcely bring herself to look at him, never mind share his bed. 

Jaime deserves it. 

There had been a time when he had been known as the cruellest of the gods, and he had revelled in that reputation. He scorned mortals and lower gods like Brienne alike, never seeing the point of extending his circle beyond his fellow gods of immense power. 

And then, shortly after his family had discarded the Baratheons seized power, he was caught in the middle of a battlefield with only Brienne, a minor goddess of battle, for company, a god who barely deserved to breathe within the presence of Jaime Lannister, the great god of war himself. 

He had hated her at first, hating her unflinching sense of duty and ridiculously staunch morals. In turn, she made a poor attempt to hide her dislike of his arrogance and cruelty. She took an approach to battle that made Jaime laugh, always seeking the honourable warriors to bestow her blessing upon. He took a delight in taunting her, provoking her, even downright disparaging her. He was the god of war in a war itself, his very element. He was on top of the world, and no sullen minor god would spoil his fun. 

And then, by sheer bad luck, he had been struck by a sword coated in a poison so deadly, it would have disintegrated any mortal, and possibly killed another god instantaneously. But Jaime Lannister was no such god, he was one of the most powerful Olympians of them all. 

That wasn’t to say it didn’t hurt. Badly. 

Brienne, dutiful as always, had dragged his shaking, useless body to a cave and nursed him back to health for a period of time that went weeks on end. In those weeks, his state of mind varied between madness and stability, but in those moments of clarity, he would find himself staring at Brienne. She wasn’t classically beautiful like Cersei, but there was something striking about her freckled muscles, her deep blue eyes, her blonde hair, normally kept short, that was now creeping below her chin. When he was finally able to stand and command his powers, he was ready to curse the soldiers that fought alongside the man that wounded him, but a single look into Brienne’s big blue eyes convinced him otherwise. 

Instead he created a ceasefire, a truce that stopped the shed of blood and ended the violence. It was the first time he willingly ended a war with no clear victor in sight. Rickon Stark, the god of victory had bemoaned his decision in the days to come, but Jaime had simply ruffled the younger god’s unruly curls, and sent him scampering. Although he would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all his family, he was somewhat fond of Rickon. 

He had seen Brienne in the distance, watching the scene unfold, with something that resembled pride. 

He thinks that was when he finally realised he was in love with her. 

For a few months, they had been happy, tucked away in the far corners of Olympus, away from his sister’s sneers and his father’s coolness, several months of sheer bliss, interrupted by a message from Cersei, demanding his services. Brienne had begged him to stay, to ignore the call to kill, but he hadn’t listened, instead leaving the comfort of her humble cottage for the grandeur of the King’s castle, and his family that ruled from inside its walls. 

It had been a mistake, a terrible mistake. He didn’t belong in this world of bitterness and spite and treachery, where the ghost of his dead brother still hung over the family, where Cersei rode him before she placed a bow in his hand and ordered him to kill an innocent.

He didn’t belong there.

He belonged with Brienne. 

“Brienne,” he now pleads, catching her arm. “I’m ordering you to listen to me - “

She looks at him with nothing short of disgust, and he falters, then forces himself to restart. “Please,” he says, his voice low enough so that it can only be heard by her. “Let me explain myself this once, and if you see fit to never speak to me again, so be it.” 

Brienne looks like she’s on the verge of refusing, but her sympathetic nature seems to win her over. She gestures to her trainees to leave, and turns to Jaime. “Davos was a great friend of mine,” she says stiffly.

“He’s not dead,” says Jaime earnestly. “He’s - he’s imprisoned, yes, but not dead.” 

Brienne does seem particularly moved. “But the boy is. An innocent child. Davos cared for him like a son, and you shot him in the back.”

Jaime hesitates. He could run the risk of ruining his entire life by speaking the truth. But if he can’t trust Brienne, who can he trust? “I didn’t,” he says.

Brienne stills. “What?”

“I didn’t kill him,” Jaime repeats. “I let him escape.”

Brienne looks like she’s in two minds. “I want to believe you,” she says slowly. 

“So do,” he says. 

“But after all you’ve done - all the horrors you and your family committed against the Baratheons and so many innocents who got in your way.“ 

“I don’t deny any of that,” he says quietly. “But that was before I met you, before you helped me, before you let me truly know you. You made me into a different man, a man who doesn’t hurt innocents. Not anymore. I couldn’t be with them, not after all they did. All the people my family killed - even my own brother. There’s a better way than this.” He takes a deep breath. “I still love you, you know.” It comes out slightly wry, but that can’t be helped. 

She’s still looking at him, in such a way that his entire body and soul aches to kiss her, but he resists the urge, letting her come to her own conclusions. 

Finally, she speaks.

“I think you should come with me.” 

—

Although Jon has three lovers to contend with, the Underworld is a vast and empty place at the best of times, but it feels all the more so for Arya’s absence. 

Time doesn’t pass in the Underworld the same way it might pass in the mortal world or Olympus, and Jon doesn’t require sleep, but he finds him periodically finding his way to a warm bed every night.

Even when he has removed the crown from his head, Jon can almost feel its pressure weighing down on him. Even here, in a warm bed, surrounded by three lovers, the gravity of the situation weighs down on him. Dead kings, banished gods, Arya on a search for a needle in a haystack. It’s a lot to contend with.

The worry must be plainly etched on his face, for Val lifts herself from where she was crouched between his legs and nudges him sharply.

“Jon?” 

“Hm?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Jon answers honestly. 

Beside them, Satin and Ygritte are consumed with each other, his hand buried between her legs, causing her to moan filthily. He frowns but doesn’t say anything. 

Ygritte however scowls and moves away from Satin, and crawls towards Jon, until she’s couched right in front of him, close enough so he can count the individual freckles scattered across her cheeks.

“Well you should.” She doesn’t even try to hide the annoyance in her voice. 

“Ygritte - “ Satin and Val warn in unison, both with similar exasperation, but Jon waves them off.

“Let her speak.” He loves Satin’s soft touches, Val’s gentle whispers, but sometimes he needs a sharp dose of reality and bluntness, something Ygritte is no stranger to offering up.

“You could reach out to Daenerys and Aegon,” she says obstinately. “They would help, you know they would. But you’re just scared of letting Arya know the truth.“

Jon doesn’t deny it. He’s got a new duty in the underworld, he’s found a new family in Arya and the three Furies he shares a bed ejth. He never told Arya the specifics of who his father was. The hatred the Starks bore for the Targaryens was infamous, and as much as Arya cared for Jon, he couldn’t help but worry she wouldn’t be able to look past his Targaryen heritage.

“If Arya knew - “

“It wouldn’t change a damn thing,” says Ygritte. “She’s smarter than that.”

Jon sighs at Ygritte’s blatant optimism. “What do you two think?” he asks Val and Satin.

It’s Val who speaks first. “I think Ygritte’s right,” she says. “You can’t distance yourself from who you were born. It’s part of who you are.” She moves up the bed, and clutches his hand her her own. “But you’re better than the other Targayens. We know that. Arya will realize it too, once you tell her the truth.” 

“From what you’ve told us about Daenerys and Ageon ... they left for a reason,” Satin says quietly. “Because they were like you. They didn’t stand for the destruction and misery wrought by the rest of your family. They were kind.”

“They were also clever,” Jon says wryly. “They weren’t killed in the siege, or banished to the Underworld like my sister and I respectively. They saw it best to hide before they were.”

“Kindness and cleverness aren’t mutually exclusive,” Val points out.

“Daenerys could find Arya’s siblings in a no time at all,” Ygritte argues.

Satin doesn’t say anything, just looks at Jon with his ridiculously pretty eyes. 

Jon sighs. He knows they’re right. “I’ll write to Dany,” he decides. “And I’ll send the letter by crow. It’ll reach her by dawn.”

Val kisses him, sweetly. “You’re doing the right thing.” 

—-

In a quiet, coastal town in Greece, the sounds of a town coming to life fill the morning air. Fishermen laugh as they haul their nets to shore, business owners open shutters, and children skip along the cobbled paths to the old schoolhouse. The town is like something from a postcard, perfect and pristine, and inexplicably frozen in time. 

The beach glistens in the morning sun, as gentle waves lull against the golden shore, as the streets fill with bustling humans going about their daily routines.

From her patio, Dany watches the scenes of her another morning unfold as she sips her morning coffee. It’s a scene she had been audience to thousands of time before, and she has yet to tire of it. 

In a few minutes, she will have to go back inside her house and make sure the triplets are presentable while Aegon prepares breakfast, but for now, she’s content to bask in the moment, as she relaxes on her patio’s rocking chair. 

She can’t help but ponder a very different chair from a lifetime ago, when she had sat on a throne that spanned the heights of several men. It was made of solid gold, but was only a side throne to the high throne of her father’s, where he sat as he ruled the realms of gods and mortals from Olympus itself. As her father’s daughter, she had been one of the most powerful beings in the world, respected and feared, gods and men alike cowering in the presence of a Titan such as herself.

That’s all behind her. 

She can hear the sounds of her family from the kitchen, breakfast eggs sizzling, the triplets arguing over something inconsequential, Aegon’s laughter. 

She closes her eyes, and basks in the sheer domesticity of it all.

A single caw alerts her from her dreamlike state. A crow is perched at the end of her garden, crocking its head and staring at her in a way that isn’t becoming of birds in the mortal world. 

She stares back at it uneasily for a couple of seconds before finishing her coffee and heading back inside to help her family start of their day.

The bird carrying Jon Snow’s letter continues to stare.


End file.
